


Twist

by conceptofzero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-20
Updated: 2011-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deuce is interrogated by the Felt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twist

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Derp and inspired by [Shad](http://whaoanon.tumblr.com/post/2846439132) and [cadaverousCulottes](http://chazzerpan.tumblr.com/post/2624375681/derples-asked-clubs-deuce-being-violently) drawings.

"I don't see why we aren't doing this in the basement," Trace quietly gripes.

"This is our mansion. We don't have to hide in the basement," Crowbar reminds him, picking a pair of pliers out of his toolbox "And it'll be easier to clean up when we can see where the blood is."

"It just feels. ...not right," Trace lamely finishes, and Stitch snorts at him, "It doesn't!"

"Kid, this ain't the talkies. We don't need to act like it is," Stitch says, settled in his own chair in the corner of the room. He's sewing the effigy back up, and as he stitches the little guy's chest back together, the plates on Deuce's chest knit up as well. There's a strange looking scar where the plates overlap, but otherwise he's more or less back to normal, "Alright, you can start again."

Crowbar steps forward, almost face-to-face with Deuce. They've strapped him into a high-chair. It looks ridiculous, but it works like a charm. The one time he'd been able to tip the chair over, he'd knocked himself out and Fin had found him before he woke up and could escape.

Deuce was an awful prisoner for that reason. Every other time they caught him, the little bastard would just slip out of them. Fin and Trace would end up following his trail and reporting the most ridiculous stuff. Deuce had crawled up the chimney. Deuce had wandered through the mansion's heating vents. Deuce had take the dumbwaiter down to the basement and got out through the root cellar.

He won't be slipping out those ways today. Crowbar smacks Deuce's cheek, "Wake up," He tells him, and Deuce's head jerks unsteadily up, still woozy from the last round, "There you are. Ready to talk?"

Deuce stares up at Crowbar with his one good eye, "I. I h-had a hat."

"It's right over there," Crowbar points to the effigy in the corner, and Deuce's hat on it, "You'll get it right back once you start talking."

"it w-was a good hat," Deuce says, and it's clear that whatever he's talking about, it's not the hat on the effigy, or maybe not even a hat at all, "t-the. Best hat. It was a-as tall as. As me."

He doesn't waste his breath. They've already been over this. Instead, Crowbar just forces Deuce's mouth open and reaches inside with the pliers. Deuce starts trying to squirm free or to shut his mouth, but Crowbar gets him tilted back far enough that he can't comfortably close his mouth, and he pinches a tooth between the two flat metal sides, "First number."

Deuce spits out a stream of muffled gibberish. Crowbar carefully listens, just in case there's a number in there somewhere. But he's still mumbling about the hat, and how it had spikes and swirls. Crowbar pulls the tooth out, and there's a snap as it breaks out of the bone holding it in place. Deuce howls and Crowbar drops the tooth into a pan.

He waits for Deuce's yowling to die down before he gets his hand in his mouth again and seeks out another tooth. Deuce thrashes around, but all it takes is Trace holding the back of the chair steady, and Crowbar easily clamps down on another tooth, "Come on Deuce, just give me the combination number."

"n-no. i. i w-won't," Deuce desperately mutters, and shrieks when Crowbar takes another tooth. It goes into the pan with the first tooth.

"We don't have to do this," Crowbar keeps his voice friendly and calm, as if they're just having a regular conversation. Blood's trickling out of Deuce's mouth and Crowbar wipes it away with a rag, "We just need the combination. And we both know you know it."

"don't," Deuce's eyes go big and they tremble, filling up with liquid, "d-don't know."

"Yes, you do," Still friendly, but unwilling to budge. Of course Deuce knows it. Trace has seen Deuce open the safe in the past, never when they're around of course. And while past-trails are a good way to move around, they end up blurring on combination locks until you can't see how many twists something took. Or how many it will in Fin's case.

More blood leaks out of his mouth. Crowbar cleans off Deuce and goes for another tooth. Deuce tilts his head to the side, fighting to keep out of Crowbar's reach, but he's strapped in and going nowhere. Crowbar just forces his jaw down again, and clamps around another tooth.

"Just spit the numbers out," He coaxes Deuce, his pliers squeezing tightly on the tooth. The sound of metal on tooth makes Trace wince. Crowbar just keeps squeezing, watching Deuce's breathing get ragged, "Nobody's going to blame you for giving in."

Deuce's good eye flutters closed, but he doesn't say a word. Crowbar pulls and the crack isn't even drowned out by Deuce's pained howl. Another tooth into the bowl and he sets the pliers aside. Too much of the same thing makes it easy to tune the pain out. But constantly changing makes it vivid and bright each time.

He glances over his box of tools, trying to decide what to pick next. At home, he used to have a routine down-pat, a slow escalation from the painful to the permanent. But everything had changed when he came to Alternia and had to learn to torture a whole new species. These chess-things, they didn't have fingernails to pull out, or flesh to cut up, not in the same way anyway. They had shell all over, and they could bleed forever without dying. It had taken him a while to adjust, but he had it more or less down-pat now. There were things that weren't worth bothering with, and there were new things he'd figured out, tortures he would have never tried on anything without a shell.

After a moment debating, Crowbar chooses the c-clamp. Here's something he would have never bothered to use on his own species, but had proved very effective with the carapeople. Crowbar easily slots it over Deuce's head like the world's worst hat. He spins the little wheel at the end, until the clamp tightens, until he can see Deuce start to struggle again as the clamp begins to press uncomfortably tight against the side of his skull, "I know you think you've got to prove something. Little guys like you always have more to prove. You don't want to let the rest of your crew down. I get it. I've been there."

A bubble of blood swells in the corner of Deuce's mouth and quietly pops. His good eye fixes on Crowbar and he's outright weeping. It's hard to tell how close he is to breaking. Crowbar would have pegged him to break twenty minutes ago, when they started cutting his chest open. But he'd made it through that, and the teeth, and now he wasn't even sure the c-clamp would to the trick.

He tightened it, and the shell on Deuce's head creaked quietly with the strain. Crowbar continued, "But it's been three hours now. You've proved what you wanted to prove. And they aren't coming for you, so you don't have anything left to prove to them."

Deuce's lip wobbles, "t-they're. Coming."

"Where the hell are they then?" Trace asks, leaning around the side of Deuce's head, "You think they would have noticed you were gone by now. Did they get lost heading here?"

"t-they're... coming," Deuce insists, but Crowbar can hear the note of doubt start to creep in.

"How long does it take for them to get here?" Crowbar carefully challenges Deuce, making sure not to put him on the defensive, "'bout half an hour or so. They should have shown up two hours ago. They know where you'd be if you were missing... which means they know. And they don't care."

The little man says nothing, but his eyes go small. The doubt is more than just creeping in, it's taking hold over Deuce. Just a little more, and he'll sing like a canary.

"They aren't coming," Crowbar reminds Deuce, one hand still on the wheel, "Give us the numbers and we'll let you go home to them. If you don't, then you'll stay here with us. And no one's coming to take you away."

Deuce looks up at Crowbar, his chin slick with blood. But the words that come out of his mouth still aren't the numbers, "t-they'll come. they. they a-always come."

Crowbar slowly tightens the wheel until they can all hear the chitin cracking under the strain and Deuce starts thrashing around, legs kicking at the chair and struggling with his bounds. Trace holds the chair up and Crowbar just keeps twisting the wheel until there's finally the loud snap as shell cracks and Deuce's eyes roll back in his head. But of all the sounds he makes, none of them are numbers.

"Move that thing," Stitch demands and Crowbar gets the c-clamp out of Deuce's skull while Stitch patches him back up. Deuce's breathing stays strained and off, even as Stitch puts Deuce's skull in order. Crowbar watches as the stitches on the stuffed dummy force the splintered shell to knit together, leaving odd rough patches behind. Only when the last stitch is in place do Deuce's eyes flutter open again.

The c-clamp goes into the pile of bloody tools, and Crowbar looks Deuce over. He turns to Trace, "Get the battery out of the Rack and the jumper cables. It's time to up the ante."

"You're a real bastard," Trace says, but he sounds more impressed than anything. He heads out, and Crowbar stares down Deuce. Deuce just looks back up at Crowbar, shaking and bleeding, but his trap stays shut. He'll speak. Even if it takes Crowbar all night, he'll make Deuce speak.

"Why don't we start from the top," Crowbar says, and picks up the hammer while they're waiting for Trace to return.

\--

Droog can't see a fucking thing with all this smoke around them. What should have been a quick smash-and-grab has turned into a total clusterfuck. The front entrance is on fire, Slick's beating a dozen copies of Eggs and Biscuits to death with his horse hitcher, and the last Droog saw of Boxcars, he was trying to catch Itchy.

He doesn't have time for this bullshit, not when the fire is only getting worse. Droog makes his way through the mansion, pool cue in hand, searching for any sign of Deuce. He can hear Slick cursing up a storm in the other room, but Droog doesn't worry. Slick can handle himself. It's Deuce that's got Droog worried.

Droog doesn't worry about much. Most of the time, he barely pays attention to Deuce, unless he needs to. But he's seen Crowbar's handiwork first hand. He knows what the son of a bitch is capable of. And he knows that Deuce may look smart and weak, but he's a stubborn fuck. When he decides he doesn't want to tell you something, there's nothing you can do to make him spit it out.

Under the overwhelming stink of smoke, Droog gets a whiff of blood. He tightens his grip on the cue and makes his way towards the lingering smell. It's coming out from behind a door and Droog pauses, listening in. He hears the sound of crackling, and Deuce warbling in pain. Droog can also smell something burning.

"-numbers and- over soon-" Crowbar's voice fades in and out. Droog's going to have to be quick. There's going to be at least two people in the room: Stitch and Crowbar, and who knows who else. Can't be Fin, or he'd already hear the bastard preparing. Or Clover and those crazed giggles of his. He just has to hope that Cans or Quarters isn't lurking in the corner.

He puts a hand on the doorknob and twists it as slowly as he can, prepping the door. It slides forward just a little bit, just enough to keep it from latching. Droog switching from the pool cue to a tommy gun, readying it and composing himself.

There's another crackling sound, and Deuce screams, and Droog kicks the door down, quickly taking in everything. Stitch is to the right, Crowbar, Deuce and Trace dead-ahead. He aims for just below Deuce's feet and sprays bullets. Crowbar hits the floor and escapes unscathed, but Trace gets nailed in the stomach and he goes down, screaming in pain as well. Droog spins to face Stitch, but Stitch has a knife up against the effigy, "I'll slit his throat if you so much as look at me the wrong way."

"And I'll fill you full of bullets," He tells Stitch, keeping the gun trained on him, even as Crowbar stands up, "You hear that? I'll take your tailor out and you won't have anyone to patch up that piece of shit."

"Oh fuck-" Trace moans, "Oh fuck, Crowbar-"

"Shut up Trace," Crowbar says quietly. Droog isn't looking at him, but he can feel Crowbar looking straight at Droog, "Nobody's killing anybody."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Droog stares down Stitch's face, ready to put a bullet in his head.

"D-Droog?" Deuce whimpers, and Droog does look away, glancing briefly over at Deuce. He's in bad shape, really bad shape. His mouth is covered in blood, and there are pits and cracks on his head, and worst of all, Droog can see the jumper cables attached to the legs of Deuce's chair.

"Put the gun away, and Stitch will take the hat off the dummy," Crowbar's got one of those calm voices that's like fucking nails on a chalkboard to Droog, "You take Deuce and walk out of here, and nobody ends up dead."

"Take the hat off the effigy first," Droog doesn't lose his temper. He doesn't threaten revenge. He just quietly reminds them that he's got as much power as they do.

Stitch glances over at Crowbar. He must have gotten the nod because he does, pulling the hat off and tossing it on the ground. Droog keeps his gun on Stitch a moment longer before finally sliding it away with the flick of a wrist, tucking the card in his pocket as he picks Deuce's hat up. Crowbar puts a foot on the high-chair and slides it over to Droog, the cables spooling out behind it until they finally pull snug and stop it, forcing the chair to totter. Droog catches it and kicks the cables off. He drags Deuce out of the room. Trace keeps moaning and bleeding all over the floor, while Crowbar and Stitch silently watch Droog leave, keeping an eye on him until the door slams shut.

Droog can't get Deuce out of the chair fast enough. He's fucked up worse than Droog's ever seen. One eye is swollen shut, and when Deuce gasps in air, Droog can see he's missing teeth. There are fresh scars on his head, and his chest, and he smells burnt, his carapace cracked and brown in areas. Droog knows that touching Deuce is going to get blood all over him and all over his suit, and frankly, he doesn't give a fuck. Just this once, he puts aside his concern with his clothes and picks Deuce up out of the chair, holding him against his chest, "We need to get out of here."

"d-didn't. D-didn't tell," Deuce mumbles, barely able to string two words together, "k-knew you. Coming."

Droog can hear Slick laughing madly from the next room, and Boxcars bellowing. He just keeps one arm tight around the shaking Deuce, "Yeah. We came. We'll always come for you."

Deuce's hands tighten in Droog's shirt and they find the nearest exit, heading straight for the van. Droog keeps Deuce close to his chest, getting over to the can and crawling in the back. The first-aid kit is crammed under the seat and Droog gets it open, rummaging through it until he can find some gauze and bandages. He sticks them over the worst wounds; the knife wounds on Deuce's chest, the electricity burns on his sides and legs. Droog wraps Deuce up as efficiently as he can considering the situation, but Deuce looks more and more like a mummy as he gets more bandages on him.

He sets Deuce down so he can grab Slick's flask from the front seat and Deuce just breaks out into tears, babbling helplessly, "don't leave m-me don't p-please d-don't-"

"I'm not," Droog picks him back up and Deuce buries his face against Droog's shirt, "You blubbering pansy, I'm not going anywhere."

He manages to get the flask, even as he keeps an arm around Deuce, and he unscrews the lid. Droog pauses and takes a shot himself before pressing it up against Deuce's lips and making him drink the whiskey to numb the pain. He's trying very hard not to notice how much blood Deuce is getting on him, even with all the gauze and bandages in the way. Deuce drinks the whiskey without his usual whining about the taste, and by the time Droog finally pulls the flask away, he seems a bit better.

The door opens, and Droog goes for his gun, but it's just Slick climbing into the driver's seat, "What the fuck happened to him?"

"Crowbar," That's all the explanation Slick needs, and Slick's face pulls into a snarl. Usually it's Slick on the other end of Crowbar's ministrations, "Where's Boxcars?"

"He's coming, just taking his sweet fucking time," Slick jams the keys into the ignition and starts the van, quickly moving the seat forward so he can reach the pedals. The van rumbles to life, and Slick smacks a hand on the horn, trying to get Boxcar's attention, "Deuce, what the fuck did they want."

"D-didn't. Didn't tell t-them. Anything," Deuce slurs out, head resting against Droog's chest.

"He's too fucked up to talk," Droog tells Slick, putting a hand on the back of Deuce's head, "Whatever they wanted, they didn't get it."

"Good, real fucking good," Slick turns around, shouting back to Deuce, "You did fucking good!"

Boxcars yanks open the door and crams himself into the passenger side, fumbling with the seat to push it back from where Slick had it, "Go!"

Even before Boxcars gets the door closed, Slick slams on the gas and the van takes off, rocketing down the road and getting the fuck away from the Felt mansion before shit can go even more pear shaped. Slick drives recklessly, and normally Droog would be yelling at him, but right now he's got Deuce to worry about, so that's what he does.

"Hey," Droog says, and Deuce turns his one eye up to Droog's face, "You did good alright?"

"You c-came," Deuce tries to smile, and then his eye rolls back and he goes limp. For one horrible second, Droog thinks that he's died. But he presses his fingers up against Deuce's throat and finds a nice strong pulse there. The little guy's just passed out.

"Get us home," Droog tells Slick, and Slick bites off his usual wise-ass comment when he sees Deuce, instead just putting the pedal to the metal and getting them the hell home.


End file.
